


Do You Think This Happens Every Day?

by recoveringrabbit



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Bus Kids - Freeform, Bus Kids Feels, Gen, Missing Scene, we should be so lucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 15:43:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9242510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recoveringrabbit/pseuds/recoveringrabbit
Summary: In which Jemma is right, again, and Fitz and Daisy drink cocoa at ungodly hours.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [agentcalliope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentcalliope/gifts).



> Happy Secret Santa, Casey! Please enjoy these Bus Kids Feels (tm).

“You know you’ll have to talk to her sometime.”

Jemma’s voice floats out from their bathroom with the crisp consonants that mean business, and Fitz pauses his perusal of his closet to trot back to the doorway without choosing a shirt. She stands in the middle of the small room, curling iron in hand, deftly sectioning out her hair and twisting it up without half paying attention. Such a small thing, but as amazing as everything else about her. Leaning against the jamb, he takes a moment to appreciate the view before responding. “Talk to who?”

Steadily watching herself in the mirror, Jemma opens the curling iron to let the strand loose. “Daisy.”

Instantly, he becomes aware of a gaping pit in his stomach that cannot be filled by toast and eggs. “I do talk to Daisy. I talked to her just yesterday.”

“In the lab. About gauntlets.”

“That’s talking,” he points out, and she tucks back the corners of her mouth.

“You know that isn’t what I meant.”

Turning his head, he traces one finger along the ridge of the door frame and idly observes the dust that gathers along his fingertip. When did it have time to get dusty? he wonders, they haven’t been in the flat long and it isn’t like they’re here often enough to leave their dead skin cells about. He hears the creak of the curling iron again, then a clatter, then a squeak of the vanity’s middle drawer and a soft thump. When he looks up Jemma is perched on the counter with her feet in the sink and an expectant eyebrow raised. He crosses his arms over his chest. “We’re fine.”

“You are not.” She bends enough to retrieve her concealer and the egg-shaped sponge from the drawer, but simple holds them as she meets his gaze in the mirror. “You’re doing a valiant job of pretending, both of you, but I know you too well to be fooled. It’s awful and it needs to stop for both your sakes.”

She nods once, firmly, and takes the lid off her concealer to begin beating the vial against the back of her hand. “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” he says over the steady _thwock thwock thwock_.

“Tell you things you don’t want to hear?”

“No, the—” He huffs, gesturing vaguely towards the cosmetic paraphernalia. “People ought to respect you without it. Even leavin’ aside the title, there’s the not-insignificant—”

“They do.” She interrupts cleanly, smearing the pale liquid across her forehead and cheeks. “I put it on for myself, just like you gel down your hair. You know that, Fitz.”

“Yeah, just—” Shrugging, he watches her brisk movements, the business-like way she evens out her skin tone into the alabaster façade of the Special Advisor to the Director In Science and Technology and hides all the flaws he knows and loves. “I miss your freckles during the day,” he says, not aware of the fact until it fills the air. “I used to be able to see them all the time.”

The look she sends him in the mirror is the opposite of a basilisk’s—though it turns him outwardly to stone, inside all his blood rushes through his veins in vibrant, gleeful life. “That’s very sweet,” she says. “And I’ll thank you properly later. At present I’d like you to return your attention to the matter at hand, which I will not let you distract me from: you need to talk to Daisy.”

Just like that, his good mood evaporates. Even the pleasant prospect of later gratitude couldn’t alleviate the present dread. Groaning, he let his head thud against the door frame. “About what? What do you think we need to discuss, o Wise One?”

She only rolls her eyes at his tone, placidly bouncing the sponge over the curves of her face. “I don’t know, perhaps that you accused her of turning her back on us in a form of betrayal never seen before?”

“It wasn’t like that,” he mutters, fully aware it was exactly like that. Equally aware, she tips her chin to look at him over invisible spectacles, her unamused expression in no way compromised by the fluffy brush now dancing across her face. Feeling about six, he crosses his arms more firmly and barely avoids a petulant whine. “Anyway, you told her the same thing.”

“First, not exactly, and second, Daisy and I have already sorted it.”

“You have?”

“Mm.” She puts down the big brush and reaches for the little one she uses on her eyelids. “I hope you didn’t think I ate the entire pint of rocky road by myself.”

“I didn’t notice,” he says honestly, and he wouldn’t have cared anyway. “You only needed a pint? I would expect that conversation to require a gallon. And some wine.”

He cunningly times his comment to end just as she begins penciling in her eyeliner because she can’t speak without ruining it and he’s not sure he wants to hear her response to that. But when she finishes and turns to meet his eyes directly, there’s nothing but earnestness. “Whatever she did, Fitz, she’s here now. Don’t you want to make the most of it?”

She doesn’t say _while we can_ , but he hears it. They’ve lost too many people in too many ways to take any time at all for granted, and he knows it, and he knows she’s right. But too many emotions boil under the surface when he thinks about talking to Daisy—hurt and anger and regret and embarrassment and a tiny sense of self-righteousness—he can’t make sense of it all, so he shoves them down and shoves himself away from the door, turning on his heel to stomp back to the closet. If he stays any longer he’ll shout at Jemma and she’s an innocent party in this whole debacle. Whether he should be shouting (again) at Daisy or only at himself for his bad behavior, he doesn’t know.

Flicking angrily through his million blue shirts, he’s too busy reliving the sheen of tears in Daisy’s eyes to notice Jemma come up behind him until she brushes past and plucks one from a hanger. He turns to take it from her, but she holds onto it, rolling the collar between her fingers uneasily even as she refuses to let him look away. “Finish the conversation, Fitz.”

“That’s for _us_ ,” he says fervently.

“But it’s just as important. Skye was our best friend.”

“ _You_ were always my best friend.”

“Of course,” she says, reaching out to take his hand and squeeze his fingers, “and you’re mine, always. But she was. . .like our sister, I suppose, the sibling neither of us had. We had her when we didn’t even have each other.” Her jaw clenches, as it always does when they reference those dark post-Hydra days, and he sweeps his thumb across her knuckles. With a slow inhale, she manages a brief smile before continuing. “And then things happened, and we needed to concentrate on sorting ourselves out. But we’re good now, and I think it would be a pity to lose your friend that way when a simple conversation would go a long way to clearing everything up.” Finally letting go of his shirt, she sways forward to caress the cross corner of his mouth before kissing it. “Think about it, at least.”

He nods silently, as unable to respond as he is to refuse her request.

With another kiss full on his mouth, she drops his hand to go into the front room where, he knows, she’ll start the kettle to boil as she gathers up the work they brought home with them in their specially designed Super Secure Satchels (name pending). And when they come home at night—if they manage it this evening—he’ll turn on the pot for pasta and toss a salad while she takes off her make-up and straightens out the bed, since his bed-making skills are not quite up to her standards but she doesn’t want to find fault with his attempts. Sometimes Fitz can’t quite believe that this easy, old-slipper domesticity is his life, that somehow in the middle of absolute madness he’s actually managed to get everything he wanted. If a genie suddenly appeared to grant him three wishes he wouldn’t know what to ask for. Well— His fingers still over the buttons. Well, except that.

 

* * *

 

Daisy takes a deep breath, loud in the Playground’s pre-dawn stillness, before rapping at the door. The faint hum in her bones is easy to handle, but it makes her kind of antsy, like seismic ripples are racing each other up her spine and she has to move or be shaken apart. If she doesn’t make it stop soon she’ll have to get her gauntlets and she always feels stupid tromping around in a t-shirt, jeans, and the equivalent of medieval armor. _It’s far more sophisticated than armor_ , Fitz’s voice corrects in her head. She ignores it and knocks again more insistently. From inside, she feels the vibration of someone throwing back the covers and shuffling to the door, so she stands back a little and waits for the door to open. When it does, she retreats again. “Fitz?”

He looks just as surprised as she is, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Daisy? Wha— um, do you need something?”

“Simmons,” she blurts out, “uh, she told me she would be crashing here tonight instead of at your apartment, so—”

“She is,” he says, “but she didn’t get in until half past two, so she’s pretty much dead to the world. If you need her—?”

It sounds like a question, but the way he lets his sentence trail off and makes no move away from the door tells Daisy he has no intention of waking Simmons up short of a direct order from Mace himself. She shakes her head. “No, no, it’s fine. I just couldn’t sleep, thought she might be up and want to talk. No big deal. Sorry I bothered you.”

Ducking her head, she starts to back away, planning a bout or twelve with the punching bag. It won’t be good as a talk with Jemma but it’ll keep her from breaking the next glass she holds.

“Wait.”

Fitz is pinching the bridge of his nose when she turns around, half-looking over his shoulder. She’s about to tell him to forget about it when he says, “um, I could—if you want. I mean, I’m already awake. Unless it’s something you’d feel uncomfortable talking to me about, which is fine.”

Part of her feels vaguely uncomfortable talking to Fitz about anything not directly related to work, but more of her feels the buzzing in her bones and knows it’s worth a shot. They’re friends, she reminds herself. They can talk. “Sure,” she says, and surprise sparks in his eyes.

“Okay. Um, just—give me a sec.”

He disappears behind the closed door for a minute, leaving her to tap her fingers against her leg and wonder if she’s just agreed to something that will destroy the tentative peace between them. This sneaking suspicion only intensifies when he rejoins her and they make their way down the hall towards the kitchen in awkward silence, only the squeak of their footsteps on the cement to prove they exist in the same dimension. No. She can’t make jokes about that. More to distract herself than anything else, she says lightly, “nice outfit there, Fitz.”

He looks down at the cardigan over his pajamas, the dress socks and sneakers. “Didn’t feel like putting on my shirt yet—the sun’s not even up. I don’t exactly have a lot of options here.”

“You don’t keep a pair of slippers for midnight bathroom runs?”

“Got out of the habit,” he says, “the flat’s bedroom has carpet, as you know.” They walk a few more feet before he clears its throat. “Er, thanks for that, by the way. I can’t remember if I said it.”

A lump comes to her throat as well. She can’t remember if he did, either, but it doesn’t matter. She didn’t do it for thanks, she did it for penance. His gratitude almost makes the already trivial set of keystrokes meaningless. An apartment is a small enough offering for the hurt she caused both of them. “No worries,” she says, then to make it matter less than it does, “it can’t be that great if you came all the way back to base to sleep. And that’s not a double bed in there, is it?”

“Jemma’s here.”

He shrugs, like it’s all the explanation necessary, and Daisy guesses it is.

When they reach the living area, Fitz holds open the door and gestures her in, all thoughtless thoughtfulness, as he always is. “D’you want something to drink?” he asks, “it’s a bit chilly in here?”

“Sure,” she agrees, sliding into a place at the table. They could sit on the couches, but she feels like she might want a barrier between them—or maybe he will—and the lack of end tables in the room makes for a good excuse. “Hey, what happened to the coffee table?” she asks as he pulls two mugs from the wire shelving.

“Whatever happens? Actually, I think in this case they were sacrificed to the Director’s decorating preferences. Not really his style.”

“Nothing about SHIELD seems like it’s really his style.”

He snorts as he opens the fridge. Whatever he mumbles is lost to the wilted lettuce and walls of Tupperware, but she gets the gist when he elbows the door shut savagely after retrieving the milk. Rubbing at his upper arm, he shakes his head and seems to regain his temper. “Yeah, well. You know what I think about his leadership style. Not a big fan of his decorating style either.”

She’s known him long enough to realize that the joke serves as a warning, so she doesn’t press further. Instead she spreads her hands over the table and examines her fingernails in near silence, listening to the rustling and beeping and banging as he fills the mugs and shoves them into the microwave.

“So.”

Her hair falls across her face as she glances up to find him bracing himself against the high metal table. He looks at her steadily, but his fingertips tap incessantly at the counter. “So?” she asks, trying to stay still herself.

“What did you want to talk about?”

“Oh.” Scrolling rapidly through her thoughts, she can’t find a safe topic in any of the hundred or more bothering her. She and Fitz are and always have been more alike than she and Simmons, but the number the last few years have done on all of them has left her and Jemma broken in the same ways. Fitz wouldn’t understand. “Nothing particular,” she says instead. “Just talk, you know, not talk about. Anything really. What’s up with you?”

The microwave beeps. Pulling out the mugs, he deliberately skims the surface of the liquid and flicks the foam into the sink, his back to her. Bobbi would be proud of his stalling technique. Bracing herself for something horrible, she does a double-take when he takes the cocoa powder from the shelf and asks easily, “did Jemma tell you about our dishwasher?”

“Your dishwasher?” she repeats, trying to sound incredulous instead of relieved. “Don’t think so. There’s something wrong with your dishwasher you and Mack can’t fix between you?”

“We can’t fix everything, just almost everything. No, it’s not broken. We’re just having a difference of opinion about it. Me and Jemma, I mean, not me and Mack—he doesn’t care.”

“Ooh, sounds juicy.” She puts her chin in her hands. “Give me the deets.”

“Okay, well,” he says, pulling open a drawer to get a spoon, “we’ve never lived together someplace that has a dishwasher, which means I didn’t know her frankly ridiculous beliefs about how you use them.”

“It’s a dishwasher. How many ways are there? You stick the plate in and turn it on.”

“That’s what I thought! But apparently, Jemma thinks you’re supposed to clean the plate off with hot water and soap before putting it in.”

“Isn’t that—”

“—washing it, exactly. At that point the dishwasher is just a sanitizer and we might as well take it out and put in cupboards, I think. If you can’t put the plates in with food on them what kind of timesaver is it?”

“Not a great one,” she says, and he nods fervently as he stirs the cocoa powder into a tornado.

“So when I do the dishes I scrape them but don’t rinse them. It’s only logical. But she says that clogs the filter and ruins the machine and takes them out to do them all again. Waste of water, waste of time, waste of technology. Anyway, it’s a bit of a battle now. Last week she scraped out the filter and left the contents on my bureau.”

He makes of face of utter disgust and she laughs, picturing him fumbling for his watch and putting his hand in soggy, smelly leftovers instead. “Devious. Was she right?”

“Of course there’s food in there, but it isn’t _clogging the filter_. They’re designed for that, honestly. It’s ridiculous.”

“So who’s going to win?” she asks, even though she knows the answer.

“She will, of course.” He brings the mugs to the table and slides hers across smoothly. “I think she gets up early and washes them while I’m sleeping. Haven’t been able to catch her at it, though.”

Daisy laughs again—that’s such a Simmons thing to do—and brings the mug to her mouth. The first sip makes dart her tongue back, surprised by both the heat and the taste. In the back of her mind, she knew not to expect coffee bean bitterness, but the pure sweetness of hot chocolate almost overwhelms her. Even that tiny sip is too much. Swallowing thickly, she stares down into the mug.

“But,” he says with a nonchalance that doesn’t fool her, “it doesn’t matter that much, I guess. Most nights we do the dishes by hand anyway, and use the dishwasher as a drying rack.”

“Living your best life,” she manages to smile.

“Yeah, actually.” He looks a little stunned. “It’s amazing, it’s as good as it was before and better. Or just, I don’t know, different? But mostly the same, except with kissing and, er, the rest.”

“I’m glad you guys are so happy,” she blurts out, not knowing she’s going to say it until she does. He sets his mug down quickly, leaving a dribble of cocoa on his chin, and she tries not to stare at it as the words tumble from her mouth without her permission. “I didn’t say it before, because—well, you guys didn’t talk about it before...before. But I’m really happy for you.”

He wipes away the cocoa with the back of his hand, nodding without meeting her eyes. “It wasn’t that we didn’t want to tell you. It didn’t seem...”

“I know,” she says.

He nods again, clearing his throat. “Thanks.”

Since neither of them is willing to discuss the delicate situation further, that appears to be the end of the conversation. Fitz resumes his drumming. Daisy returns to her cocoa as the safest option. Finding it the perfect temperature, she takes a long drink, shutting her eyes against the memories that flood in with the sweet chocolate creaminess. Fitz makes the best cocoa in the world. It had been their treat on the Bus while they watched horror movies Simmons flatly refused to waste time on, and he had brought a messy half-full mug to one of their clandestine conferences after Puerto Rico, and one appeared in front of her door the night of Lincoln’s memorial service. _It will be okay_ , the soothing smell suggests, and _I’m here for you_. And Fitz, thoughtful deliberate Fitz, made it for her now. She can’t believe he doesn’t mean anything by it, but her hoping muscle hasn’t had a lot of use lately and she can’t bring herself to ask. Instead she says, “I hope you know your cocoa is addictive. I had finally got to a place where I could drink Starbucks without spitting it out and now you’ve made me relapse.”

“I don’t think being able to drink Starbucks counts as a recovery.”

“So I’m doomed to go cocoa-less my whole life?”

“No,” he says, something flashing across his face, “of course not. I’ll make you cocoa whenever you want it. You just have to be in the same place as me.”

She sets her mug down sharply as the swallow in her mouth curdles, turning bitterer than an Americano. Even as she chokes on it, she knows she deserves the reminder. It’s not his fault she hasn’t had his cocoa in months—she’s the one who ran, who knew what he offered and refused to accept it, who made what had always been something sweet into something he wanted to spit out. Right thing or not, necessary or not, she can’t change how he feels about it. She just should have known better than to believe Jemma that he’ll forgive her. Even his generous reserves have to tap out sometime, and if he really feels like her leaving them was worse than anything anyone else had done she doesn’t blame him for this being it. Good thing she didn’t get her hopes up. “Look, Fitz, I know I messed it up—”

“Damn,” he says, pinching his nose again. “That came out all wrong. Just—it’s—” One hand draws airborne circles in a gesture she hasn’t seen in a long time, and she clutches the mug and waits for him to find the right words. Each shallow breath she takes slices painfully sideways through her heart. Funny, she hadn’t thought there was anything much besides scar tissue left. “I meant,” he said finally, “I’m happy to make you hot chocolate anytime you want it.”

She pushes the corners of her mouth into something resembling a smile, fully aware it probably looks like a clown’s. “No, you meant the other thing. It’s okay.”

“I did not.”

“Fitz, I know you feel like I totally betrayed you and you don’t”—she shrugs as her voice breaks—“you don’t deserve that, any of you. I don’t blame you for being upset.”

“You should, though.” He presses his lips into a thin line and shakes his head disgustedly, not meeting her eyes. “I mean, I can’t change my feelings and I still think you shouldn’t have left, but what the hell was I doing shouting at you about it? You were upset enough without my idiot self piling on. Obviously, or you wouldn’t have gone in the first place. I know I acted like a jerk, and I’m sorry.”

He does look up then, and she’s a little surprised (but only a little) to see a glossy sheen over his eyes. “You’re sorry?” she repeats, because she hasn’t been able to get further than that and she has to say something. He nods.

“For, um, when we were on the plane. I’m sorry for shouting and being generally awful. I could have handled it a lot better.”

Looking at him, she remembers how his words hit her square in the gut, every one of them a blow worse than anything a bad guy threw at her. She remembers trying to disappear into the wall of the Quinjet so she won’t have to face the accusations flying thick and fast from his trembling lips and Mack’s brimming eyes. She remembers biting the tip of her tongue so she wouldn’t crumble to pieces in front of them. “Yeah, you could have,” she agrees shakily, not sure what’s causing the quiver, “it really sucked.”

“I know.”

“I mean, I was already quaking my bones to powder and not even caring because my broken heart hurt a million times worse. I didn’t need your assessment of the situation adding a metric ton of guilt to the load I was dragging around.”

“You didn’t,” he nods.

“It’s just,” she says, and yup, the quiver is definitely the first drops of what’s going to be a massive storm, “like, what the hell _were_ you doing shouting at me? Who gave you the right? Because I’m pretty sure you were just fine here on the base with Simmons and your fancy robots and your new dad while I was on the run in my van all alone trying not to destroy anything or anyone else I love.”

“And doing a bang-up job of it too,” he snorts, and she shoves angrily back from the table, taking pleasure in the unholy screech of the chair’s metal legs against the concrete.

“Like you were so much better when Simmons was on her little intergalactic adventure, Fitz. Bobbi told me stories about what you did—does Jemma know how many times you almost got yourself killed?”

He shoves to his feet as well, his jaw jutting out like a bulldog’s. “Actually, I _was_ better, and you know why? Because I had Bobbi. And Hunter. And Mack. And _you_. You all looked out for me and covered for me and made sure I was eating and sleeping every few days and did my laundry while I was gone and generally kept my body alive while I tore the universe apart looking for my soul. I _would_ have gotten myself killed if it hadn’t been for you. And when it happened to you—” He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “You decide that you don’t need our help. You can handle everything on your own, except when you can’t, and then you use us and drop us. Well, guess what? You _can’t_.”

It’s almost like she’s back in her Terrigenesis cocoon—she can’t move, can’t speak, can’t hear anything except the thudding of her heart. He stares at her for a second, chest heaving, until he curses and turns away with one hand over his eyes. “That’s not what I meant to do.”

The lump in her throat almost chokes her, but she manages something almost like a disbelieving laugh. “Didn’t mean your apology to turn into something else to apologize for? It’s okay. At least I can believe you actually mean this, unlike your funny story and pity cocoa of lies.”

“It’s not a lie,” he says, but she doesn’t believe him. Crossing her arms tightly around herself, she kicks at her chair and stalks towards the door with no further goal than to get as far away from him as possible.

“Okay, well,” he shouts after her, “if you want the truth you should stay and listen to all of it.”

She tosses a scatological word his direction without looking back. “Screw you, Fitz.”

Somehow he’s beside her, and his hand circles her elbow, stopping her forward momentum even though his grip is nothing but gentle. She deliberately doesn’t lift her gaze further than the middle of his chest, fully aware she’s _this close_ to crying or screaming or pounding her fists against him just so she doesn’t bring down the base around them. But she can feel his thumb sweep softly against her bicep, and she can hear him fighting to keep his voice just as careful. “The truth is,” he says quietly, “we weren’t ‘just fine’ without you. The truth is: you not being here hurt us worse more than you being here ever did.”

She wrenches away from his kindness, clenching her hands into fists at her sides and seeking refuge in the breathing exercises May drilled into her skull during their first days at the Playground. How can he say that? He knows what she’s capable of. He knows what happens to people she cares about, how dangerous her very presence is to everyone around her. “You’re alive,” she grits out. “That’s more than you might be otherwise.”

He sighs heavily. Though she still can’t see him, she’s willing to bet money he’s got his hand on the back of his neck. “Yeah, but alive isn’t enough.”

That makes her glance up sharply. He peers at her from under serious eyebrows, his forehead wrinkled up almost like finding the right words hurts. “What do you mean?” she asks, “of course alive is enough. It’s better than—better than dead.”

He shrugs one shoulder, scratching up into his hair. “If you’re dead, I don’t think you mind it either way. But that’s not what I meant. I meant if you care about someone, just the both of you being alive isn’t enough. I thought it was, but—” Stopping, he shakes his head almost incredulously. “I was at Radcliffe’s, which is about twice as close to our flat as it is to here, but I came here anyway. And when Jemma came in I put her toothpaste on her toothbrush and gave her a warm flannel to take off her make-up. And then she fell asleep in the middle of a sentence and drooled onto my shirt. And it was my privilege.”

The mental image makes Daisy’s breath catch in her throat. She hasn’t quite forgotten being loved like that, and the lump in her throat grows a counterpart in her chest. Probably that makes her sound harsher than she means to. “What’s your point?”

“My point is,” he says, not rising to her barb, “that when you love someone, you want to take care of them in whatever way you can. I wasn’t angry because I felt like you betrayed us. I was angry because I felt like you didn’t trust us to care about you enough to take care of you, when you’ve done it for us over and over again.”

The twin lumps explode. She controls earthquakes, but this isn’t that, because tears stream down her face hot as lava and snot is oozing too, and she’s hardening like rock until she feels his arms come steady and strong around her shoulders and she lets herself collapse into him, clutching his cardigan like it’s the only thing tethering her to earth. Maybe it is. That and the sound of his voice as he pours reassurances into her ear: _I’m sorry_ and _it will be okay_ and _I’m here for you_. She never cries like she does into Fitz’s shoulder, and she’s never stopped to think why before but now she wonders if it’s maybe because she knows with him she is absolutely and always safe. “I’m just,” she manages to gasp out, “so freaking done with being the reason people get hurt. I thought—I thought if I could get away from everyone it—it wouldn’t hurt—so bad.”

“So you ran away and found a vigilante whose head lights on fire to care about instead,” he teases gently, tightening his arms when she launches into a fresh burst of sobs. “Daisy, I’m pretty sure you’d have to die yourself to stop caring about people.”

“It just—why does it hurt so much?”

His hand strokes the back of her hair. “Life is pain, highness. Anyone who tells you anything else is selling something. But it’s worth it, don’t you think?”

She burrows into him, remembering how he comforted her after San Juan. Thinking about the way Mack forgave her after Hive. Feeling Jemma’s freezing cold hands gently sewing up bullet holes as she insists on bad girl shenanigans. Seeing Lincoln grinning crinkle-eyed up at her. Smearing snot into Fitz’s sweater as she nods, she takes a shuddering breath: “Yeah.”

They stand there in silence for awhile, her crying and him holding, until her sobs steady into normal inhales and exhales and the soft grey peace that always follows a crying jag clears her mind enough to let her pull away. Fitz’s sweater is much worse for the wear, but he doesn’t seem to care as he meets her eyes, his own full of concern and looking a bit like he indulged in a few tears of his own. “All right?”

“Yeah,” she says. And then, because for the first time in a long time she believes it, she says it again.

He sways a little on his feet. “I really am sorry. That’s what I meant to say when I came—I swear it wasn’t cocoa of lies.”

“You would never treat cocoa so falsely.”

“Very true.” Putting one hand in his pocket, he gestures to the table with the other one. “And it’s all cold now, which is a travesty and a crime. Do you want me to dump it out and make more?”

“Yes, please.” She trails him back to the table, plopping into her vacated chair like her bones can’t hold her up any longer. “Coffee is life, but cocoa makes it worth living.”

He hums agreement and picks up the mugs in one hand. The sound turns into a contented little song as he bustles around the kitchen, dumping out the old cocoa and starting fresh. “We’ll owe you some milk,” he says, “we can pick it up easier anyway, believe me I do not miss supply runs. Jemma’s going crazy about the access to fresh vegetables, but she doesn’t actually buy them any more often. But don’t tell her I told you that. Odd bird, that one.”

“She’s not the only one. Or am I making up that you quoted _Princess Bride_ at me while I was bawling my eyes out?”

His smile flashes over his shoulder quick as lightning. “It seemed appropriate. You used to give me advice about everything in _Princess Bride_ quotes and I hadn’t even seen it. So.”

“Oh my gosh, you’ve lived in this country _so long_. I’m pretty sure it’s part of the naturalization process. Whatever friends you had before me _clearly_ were not as good.”

“Nope,” he says, turning fully around and holding her gaze. “They weren’t.”

 

* * *

 

Jemma tries to meet each morning with a smile, no matter how rotten the day before was; she knew better that many that one can’t begin to guess what the next twenty-four hours will bring. And it’s been easier of late, of course, since most of the time she meets the morning only inches away from her favorite person in the universe, who of himself has the ability to transform the most horrible situations into somewhat tolerable ones. Not this morning, though. She smiles anyway as she stretches across the empty bed, choosing to believe the hazy impression of a scratchy kiss and a whispered sentence means that the most pressing concern on her mental Worry List will no longer require her attention. Eager to see, she hurries through her morning ablutions and all but skips down the corridors.

The nearer she comes to the common room, the brighter her smile grows. Their voices aren’t loud enough to let her distinguish words, but she recognizes the easy, faux-combative tones even though she hasn’t heard them in longer than she cares to consider. They’re a far cry from the delicate care Fitz and Daisy have been taking with each other since Daisy’s triumphant-if-forced return, and Jemma hardly even has to hope for the best as she pushes open the door.

They glance up in near unison, Fitz’s face lighting up with that glow she loves more than the sun while Daisy, puffy-eyed but smiling, raises her mug in half-greeting, half-beckoning. “Come here and tell your boyfriend he’s totally wrong.”

“Is he?” she asks, obeying the first part of Daisy’s command but withholding judgment on the seconds. Fitz sputters indignantly. To pacify him, and because there’s no one but Daisy in the room and she can, Jemma runs her hand across his shoulders as she comes up behind him and presses a kiss to the top of his head. She means it to be quick, but the smell of his shampoo intoxicates her and she lingers long enough to let him twist his fingers around hers before continuing her journey to the kettle. Her eyebrows flicker when she finds it cold.

“Ah, yes.” Fitz points, a little sheepish. “I thought you would sleep longer. Sorry.”

“There’s cocoa!” Daisy crows.

“Tea’s fine,” she says, ducking her head so neither of them will see the fight taking place at the corners of her mouth. Fitz made _cocoa_. She knew they would come to an understanding if they just gave it a chance. “What is Fitz possibly wrong about?”

He snorts. “Of course I’m not wrong. The Director isn’t a thing like Slughorn. Frankly I think Daisy’s a little cocky to insist she knows him better than we do.”

“But Gilderoy Lockhart?” Daisy shakes her head firmly as she takes a drink of her cocoa. “First, he’s not hot at all. Second I’ve seen him fight, so it’s not all talk. Come _on_.”

They both turn to her expectantly, eyebrows raised at matching angles; Daisy makes a pouty mouth across her shoulder. With a fleeting glance at Fitz, whose reason for picking Lockhart does not escape her, Jemma dumps her tea bag in a mug and sighs dramatically. “Unfortunately, you’re both wrong. The Director is quite obviously Cornelius Fudge.”

Smugly, she pretends to lavish her attention on creating the perfect cup of tea while secretly watching them consider and accept her identification. It doesn’t take them long, since she’s so obviously correct. Even before it’s time to remove the tea bag, Daisy groans loudly. “She killed us, Fitz. Maybe we shouldn’t play this game with her.”

“Her near-encyclopedic memory is a distinct advantage,” he agrees, tossing Jemma a wink, “but since this isn’t a competition I think it’ll be better now that she’s here.”

Daisy makes a gagging noise. “Stop, stop, you’re too adorable, I can’t stand it. The two of you just looking at each other is worse than Mack and Yoyo making out.”

“Strange,” Fitz says soberly,” since newer couples are generally considered more nauseating.”

“More enthusiasm than practice,” Jemma nods, “additionally, Mack and Yoyo have a rather substantial height difference—”

“Just the sheer mechanics—” Fitz moves his arms and shoulders at right angles, pretending to be a robot until he nearly hits her as she slides in next to him. “I’m just saying, I find it hard to believe that we’re worse.”

“I think she’s trying to make us feel awkward,” Jemma stage-whispers, “but it isn’t going to work, is it?”

“She’s going to have to run away again if she wants to escape our domestic bliss,” he mutters back, and she gulps slightly more tea than is healthy and has to be pounded on the back several times. When she finally looks up, eyes streaming, Daisy stops trying to hold back her laughter.

“You were the one who said we needed to talk!”

Fitz’s hand stills its soothing journey across her back. “You told Daisy too?”

“Of course,” she manages, still hoarse, “I told you we sorted everything. I assume you have, too, since you’re making jokes about it? In highly unsafe situations, I might add.”

“No, we sort of skipped that part,” Fitz says.

“Yeah,” Daisy says, eyes still dancing, “we’re good.”

“Good.”

She has to return to her tea or start crying, she’s so pleased and relieved. Even in the midst of everything else she has to worry about, the tenuous relationship between her two best friends is what keeps her up at night, staring at the ceiling while Fitz sleeps in quiet ignorance beside her. People have said—and in her most honest moments she admits it’s true—that she and Fitz would be happy if they were the only two people on the planet, but even their current extraordinary contentment doesn’t make their other relationships disappear. They still matter. And in many ways Daisy matters most of all, and more to Fitz than to her. She would fight with fingernails and teeth to protect their relationship from outsiders and with all the quiet fury her heart holds to mend it between them. Thank goodness, she thinks, tears swimming into her eyes despite her best efforts. Thank goodness she has one less burden to bear.

“Hey.” Fitz taps her shoulder with the very tip of his finger. When she turns, he meets her eyes with quiet understanding and gentleness, and she holds out her hands to catch the lifeline he’s about to toss her. “Guess the rest,” he says. “We started with _Princess Bride_ and got nowhere—”

“Except you two are clearly Miracle Max and Valerie,” Daisy puts in.

“—so we’ve been on Harry Potter for a bit. Who’s who?”

Taking a steadying breath, she purses her lips and considers. “Well, Daisy is Harry.”

Fitz squawks triumphantly, shooting Daisy a smug _I told you so_ as she groans. “I swear, the two of you. Why am I Harry?”

“Who else could you be?” Jemma lifts one hand and begins counting on her fingers. “Orphan with mysterious history, powerful, kind, heroic…”

“Exactly what I said,” Fitz says, holding out his hand for a high five without letting up on his gloating, “exactly. Trust your genius friends, Daisy.”

Jemma smacks his palm and continues quickly to ease Daisy’s discomfort. “May is McGonagall, because she moves like a cat and cares more than she lets on. Hunter is Sirius on a good day. Bobbi is…maybe Lupin, because she’s so nurturing, but he’s not very cool. Is there anyone cool enough to be Bobbi?”

“No,” Daisy says, and Fitz offers, “Kingsley?” The two girls consider and allow it. Jemma takes a sip of tea.

“I don’t know who Mack is.”

“Hagrid, duh,” Daisy says.

“Just because he’s part giant? That’s hardly enough to—”

“Because he’s _kind_ ,” Fitz interrupts, “and, you know, part giant. It’s a bit more complicated than that. Okay, who’s Coulson?”

“Dumbledore,” she says without thinking, “because May is his right hand and the Director his tentative ally, and because he loves Daisy best of anyone.”

“He does not.” Daisy looks into her mug, letting her hair fall in front of her face. “I mean, I’m not saying he doesn’t care about me, but…”

Under the table, Fitz’s knee bumps hers once, twice. They’ve discussed Coulson’s favoritism in the past and ultimately decided it doesn’t matter; FitzSimmons looks after FitzSimmons. Anyway, Daisy deserves to have someone care more about her than everyone else. She’s had little enough of that in her life before. “He does,” she says as matter-of-fact as she can, “and that’s all right. We all have our favorites. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t care about the rest of us.”

“Anyway,” Fitz puts in, “we look after each other. You need a little more help.”

Daisy chuckles, shaking her hair back so she can take another sip of cocoa. “Ex- _cuse_ me. I’m not the one who keeps getting myself into life-or-death situations. Except that one time, and maybe that other time. You two are the ones who need extra help.”

“That’s what we have you for,” Jemma says. “And you have us, always.”

“Til the very end?” Daisy’s smile spreads easy across her face, and she sets her mug down with a little _aww_. “My very own Ron and Hermione. Which works out perfectly, since we all know Jemma loves homework—”

Fitz chimes in for the last part of the sentence “—more than life itself.” His knee bumps hers in a silent reassurance; he knows she has a love/hate relationship with the comparison, which has dogged her since the third book came out. Sometimes she dates the first moment she fell in love with him to the time he told her she was like Hermione because she was just as dedicated to helping people who needed it. “But I’m not much like Ron,” he says, ears slightly pink, “except for, er, the obvious. I can be him by default.”

Truthfully, Jemma thought Fitz was like Ron long before she ever consciously considered him in a romantic light, for a hundred reasons she determines to share with him in a more private environment. Being secure in her love has granted him more confidence than he had before, but self-doubt is a stubborn companion with a tendency to rear up when one least expects it. Her poor Fitz. Shaking her head, she reaches for her mug, letting the back of their hands slide against each other. “Not by default,” she says lightly, unwilling to make him wait for the affirmation but not wanting to embarrass either of them. “For one thing, you too have a mother who knits astonishingly elaborate jumpers.”

Daisy reaches across the table suddenly, putting her hand on Fitz’s arm and holding tight. “And this accidental, grudging hero would be totally dead without you. You’re the best friend anyone could ever have.” Her eyes flicker to Jemma. “No offence.”

“None taken,” she says, holding out her hand and waiting until Daisy puts hers into it. Peeling Fitz’s fingers away from his mug, she intertwines them with her own and rubs her thumb over his knuckles. “Actually, I quite agree. No offence.”

Slowly, Fitz slides his arm through Daisy’s clasp until his palm wraps around her wrist, bracketing it as firmly and supportively as one of her gauntlets. Daisy copies him, pushing her fingers up under his sleeve, and they sit there for a minute, hand in hand in hand, three kids who grew up together and lost each other and found each other again. Triangles are the strongest shape, Jemma thinks happily, and tightens her hold on the two people she loves most in the whole world.

After a minute, Daisy clears her throat and shakes the hand that’s holding Fitz. “But I got to tell you, even if you had a sister I don’t think I’d want to marry her. That’s going a little too far for me.”

“We don’t need it,” Jemma says, letting her head rest briefly against Fitz’s shoulder. “We’re already blood related.”

“True,” Daisy says, “we’re ‘eternally bound by friendship and love’. Pfft getting married. Unless you want to, of course, in which case I can totally be both best man and maid of honor.”

Fitz’s hand shakes in hers, but he doesn’t pull away. Aware of a sudden flight of butterflies somewhere around her stomach, Jemma hopes desperately she’s not as red as she feels and tries to steady her voice. “Eternally bound by friendship and love? That’s awfully poetic of you, Daisy. Quite lovely, really.”

“You know me, a poet at heart. And a natural disaster. A lot like the _Hobbit_ movies, actually.”

Fitz glances at Jemma, who raises one shoulder, just as confused. Daisy looks between them, both eyebrows incredulous. “Seriously guys? It’s a quote. From _Return of the King_.”

Fitz remains squinty-eyed and curious, but Jemma makes a noise of recognition. “Oh, those movies with the man from _The Office_? And what’s his face, not that you can recognize it under all the prosthesis? Remember, Fitz, we saw the first one at Sci-Ops with Thompson and Munoz?”

“Noooo.” Daisy groans as if in pain. “Those are the second set of movies and an abomination. I’m talking _Lord of the Rings_ , baby Elijah Wood and Orlando Bloom pre-Pirates and special effects that blew our collective mind. Is any of this ringing a bell?” At their simultaneous negative, she slumps over, still not letting go of either of their hands. “What the heck were you doing in 2003?”

“Getting my doctorate,” Fitz says, and Jemma adds, “my second.”

“Ugh.” Sitting back up, Daisy shakes her head. “That settles it. Tonight, assuming none of us is on a plane or in a van or a different planet or alternate state of being, I am coming to your apartment and we are watching _Fellowship_ at the very least, maybe _Two Towers_ depending on if we can find the extended editions or not. There will be popcorn and chocolate of some kind and cookies, regular ones. You will leave the dishes in the sink. This is not optional, _capice_?”

“Understood.”

“Yes, Agent Johnson.”

“Good.” Squeezing their hands one last time, Daisy lets go and pushes to her feet, swiping up her mug and taking it to the sink. The water runs for half a second before she turns it off, and Jemma makes a mental note to wash it more thoroughly before leaving the room. Daisy turns, crossing her arms across her chest as she leans her hip against the lip of the counter. “And let’s not let it go so long again, huh? I’ll do my part if you do yours.”

Her question is flippant, but her eyes are serious, demanding an answer about more than movie nights. Jemma knows better than many that you can’t make promises, not in this life they have; no one can say what the next day will bring. Somehow, though, this one comes easily, as easily as any since she looked Fitz in the eyes and told him they wouldn’t let anything tear them apart again.

Fitz tightens his grip on Jemma’s hand, and she knows he’s read her mind again. “As long as you promise not to make gagging noises,” he says. “But we’re not going anywhere.”


End file.
